


Playing the Part

by velvel



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1940s, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate History, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-23
Packaged: 2018-09-19 10:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9436652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvel/pseuds/velvel
Summary: It's been three years since Moshe returned from the war bonded to a man he swears isn't his mate.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So... I like omegaverse, and I can only write historical fiction. But I only know history from about 1920-46 Germany. I've had these characters in my head for a while, and have always wanted to try writing something with a/b/o dynamics, but when I combined the two it seemed kinda, well, awful, all things considering the fucking horrible time period. I tried writing it as thinly veiled sci-fi, but that just felt silly. In the end I just wrote it, so forgive me - I know. Trust me. I feel the trash I am, but I tried to do it as, uh, tastefully as possible. At least there are no Nazis, except in the gaps. 
> 
> This is my first time writing in about a year, it's pretty unedited (so there might be some glaring mistakes), and it's also my first time writing sex! So, not asking you to be kind or anything but shit, ya'll, lol, I tried.

Moshe wakes up in the middle of the night when the weight of the bed shifts, its old springs creaking as Johann steps out from under the covers and heads to the bathroom. Moshe drifts a bit, floating somewhere between fully awake and the edge of his dreams, watching the dark shape of Johann cross their bedroom. Johann pauses uncertainly when he reaches end of their bed, and stretches a hand out as if to rouse Moshe, hovering it over his leg for a moment, before abruptly pulling back.

He shakes his head, and walks the rest of the way to the bathroom, closing the before turning the light on. Moshe closes his eyes and exhales deeply, falling back asleep to the sound of soft whimpers from inside the bathroom, shuddering breaths that could be Johann either crying quietly or trying to muffle his pleasure, so as to not wake Moshe. Neither, so Moshe believes, is his business. He catches the scent of shoe polish and ocean breeze before slipping into a deep sleep, and he dreams of rutting into an woman with indistinct features, of knotting her, and of holding her against his chest throughout their release, both of them warm with and warn out with heat and exertion. Warm and content.

When he wakes up the next morning, Johann is gone, and Moshe has cum in his briefs like a teenage boy. He sighs, stretches and groans, undresses and puts on exercise clothes. The apartment is silent, save for the sounds of the city and their neighbors getting ready for work. He goes for a run. He runs almost every day, but today there's a restlessness tingling throughout his entire body and when he's not moving, his muscles throb with a dull ache. He doesn't think about much when he's running. The rhythm, the sweat, the heavy breathing, the heat of the movement, all of it soothes him somewhat, and for half an hour he exists without thinking.

He does wonder, briefly, where Johann could be, and the errant thought ignites a flash of irritation in his chest, before he turns a corner and shakes it off.

The deli is open and already serving customers when he arrives. The deli is his: Moshe bought it not long after the Army discharged him, when he returned to America and discovered, painfully, that his boxing career had come to an end. Moshe blames the Battle of the Bulge: he's convinced that the winter cold crept permanently into his knee joints, and that Hitler is the reason he's no longer the light shuffler he once was. A boxer who can barely dodge is barely a boxer. So he had to find other work. His parents had helped him put together enough money to lease out a corner in Brooklyn, and, for whatever reason - perhaps because he was an old boxing legend, or more likely because of Ayla's Turkish coffee - the place became a hangout for police force looking to chew the fat and journalists looking for scraps.

That was about three years ago. These days he divides his time between the deli and teaching boxing at Miller's gym in Harlem.

Moshe finishes his run outside the deli and stops to catch his breath, when the door opens and McGowan, a police sergeant, comes out, cup of coffee in one hand and a bitten bagel in the other. He sees Moshe, and freezes up, swallowing his bagel and coughing, taking a sip of coffee to clear his throat, and making motions with his mouth as if trying to figure out how to tell Moshe some extremely bad news.

"What?" Moshe says.

"Morning, Moshe," McGowan says, hesitantly.

"Good morning, Sarge. Is something wrong?"

"Well. Uh. You see." McGowan screws his face up, then sighs and shrugs, apparently thinking the better of saying something difficult. He demurs. "No, not particularly. Just - you take care, alright? And tell your mate to stay safe."

Johann, Moshe wants to say, has a name and is not his mate. But Moshe had spent the first two years after the war correcting anyone who called Johann his mate, before realizing that no one really cared to make the distinction: Johann bore his mark, after all. To most, Johann _was_ Moshe's mate. It made no difference that they'd never actually fucked, or that Moshe had no desire to sleep with other men - not that he went around around announcing this to the world. It was enough that Johann smelled a little bit like Moshe and Moshe smelled a little bit like Johann. Besides, to the average Christian American, an omega male isn't exactly a man at all. It's one of the multitudinous reasons Hitler considered the Americans to be a mongrel race: aside from the fact that they'd opposed him, Americans more (or less, in Moshe's experienced) accepted Jews and 'feminized' omega men to exist undisturbed in their country. As long as Moshe acts appropriately goy - and good Christian Americans like McGowan often mistook athleticism for goyishness - then most people are pleased to be his neighbor. Similarly, as long as Johann has long hair, wears skirts and rouges his face, most Americans would be charmed to meet him.

"You too," Moshe says, still light headed from his run and thrown off by McGowan's odd behavior. "I mean, stay safe. Have a good day."

McGowan laughs, awkwardly, says, "You too," as well, and heads off down the street. Moshe looks through the deli's window and considers McGowan's advice. One of the small tables is occupied by two policemen, as usual, and sitting at the front counter, nursing a cup of tea, is Johann. He's wearing trousers and a newsboy cap pulled low to obscure his face. Why should I tell Johann to be safe? Moshe thinks, then notices one of the policeman - a big man, most likely an alpha - casting a meaningful glance in Johann's direction, and suddenly the thought crosses his mind, again: Where's he been all morning?

Moshe enters the deli and Johann immediately scents him: he gasps, lightly, and turns to look at Moshe, before abruptly looking back down into his cup, shoulders hunched like a dog whose done something wrong and knows it, but is pretending like he hasn't created the mess all around him. And Moshe catches Johann's scent as well, like shoe polish and sea breeze, but there's something deeper to it this morning, something alluring, and mixed in that, something else. Moshe sees that the alpha policeman has his legs crossed uncomfortably, and is embarrassed that his own running shorts have begun to bulge. Moshe goes behind the counter quickly, and stands directly across from Johann.

From the register, Ayla, his head waitress, takes them in. "Oh good," she says, waving at his workout clothes, "You couldn't change before coming in? Now both of you are stinking up the place."

"Ayla," Moshe says, warning in his voice. "Maybe go make a fresh pot of coffee?"

He has no doubt the coffee Ayla has already made is perfectly fresh, but she snorts and wanders into the kitchen, anyway. He glances over his shoulder, and sees her through the serving window leaning against the fridge door and examining her nails. When he turns back to Johann, he can tell Johann is as bothered by Moshe's scent as Moshe is by his. For the hundredth time, Moshe is surprised by how small the man is; at full height, Moshe stands almost a foot taller than him. Johann shifts in his seat, and he looks up at Moshe from under the brim of his cap with a gleam in his eye like he's calculating the chances Moshe will hit him, and Moshe feels a deep stab of pity and wild anger. From this close, Johann's scent is overwhelming, and without a doubt, he's in heat, but on top of that, the strange scent Moshe had noticed earlier is now blantantly obvious: the scent of another alpha, lingering on Johann from some recent rut.

The image of Johann being pounded into a mattress by some alpha sucking marks onto his neck flits unbidden into Moshe's mind, and his chest feels constricted with the pressure - with the need - to find evidence, to know exactly what had been done behind his back. Johann's shoulders are stooped in an effort to make himself even smaller, and his shirt collar hides his throat from Moshe's view. When Moshe touches his chin, Johann's eyes go sharp with fear, but mechanically, he bares his neck for a moment - showing Moshe the light bruises beginning to color there - before shying back.

Moshe realizes, with a start, that he's scaring Johann, and that despite the deep mark beneath Johann's right ear that is undeniably _his_ , he has no claim to do so. Not that, Moshe thinks, shame sobering up him a bit, he'd have any right to scare Johann even if Johann were his mate. Still, he's furious, whether due to biology screwing with his brain or the fact that, by going out while in heat, Johann had put himself in serious danger. "What are you doing?" Moshe hisses, "You should be home."

Johann's eyes narrow, suddenly, into anger. His hands uncurl from around the cooling cup of tea and latch onto the edges of the counter, knuckles turning white. "What?" He says, a little too loud for decency. Moshe motions for him quiet down, which Johann ignores; Moshe's relieved, at least, that Johann has chosen this moment to speak Yiddish - less, he suspects, for privacy than because Johann has a harder time expressing himself vehemently in English. "Because I'm an omega I have to cloister myself up every time I go into heat? Otherwise, what? Some alpha who can't control themself will rape me? I think you've demonstrated convincingly enough that an alpha can control himself around an omega in heat, and as for rape-"

"Don't-" Moshe begins to interrupt, but they're both cut off by the door chime as a customer walks in. Ayla sashays out of the kitchen to take the woman's order. She's an unbonded omega Moshe recognizes, vaguely, as a researcher for one of the big newspapers. A regular. She's pretty, and she flashes Moshe and Johann a big smile - which falters as soon as the situation hits her. For most Americans, an omega in trousers is a mild scandal to begin with; not unheard of, but highly frowned upon. But only whores go out in public while in heat. Rape is a danger, yes, but so is being arrested for solicitation. The policeman in the deli earlier had been looking at Johann with as much suspicion as lust, and McGowan must have been horrified for Moshe. Moshe forces a smile, and tells Ayla that the woman's coffee is on the house.

Johann is back to staring at his tea, cheeks tinged red, but not with embarrassment. Being thought of as a whore is hardly new to Johann, and Moshe has known him to use the label on himself with a kind of self-deprecating pride. His burst of anger broken, Johann is back to containing himself, and Moshe watches him exhale a panting sigh and, probably without even knowing it, grind his hips forward against the chair. The relief he'd have gotten from fucking a stranger would be wearing off soon, and Moshe feels his mouth go dry at the display. Ayla, a beta, drums her fingers on the register and gives Johann a worried look as the omega customer hurries out with her coffee. Ayla likes Johann a lot- she found his natural ability to shock WASPs very funny - but this was far even for her. Thankfully the alpha policeman had already left; despite Johann's own confidence, Moshe really didn't trust any alpha to have his kind of control.

"I'm taking you home," Moshe says, strained smile melting away, "Better yet, I'm taking you to my parent's house. Dad'll watch over you while you ride this thing out - safely. Ayla, can you handle the deli today?"

Ayla nods, "Sure thing, boss."

Moshe's father is an immigrant from Germany who came over after the first world war, weary of both the rising antisemitism and the concurrent rise of a militarized masculinity that put brutal pressure on male omegas. In America, he met Moshe's mother, a young Jewish alpha woman working in the same factory where he'd landed a bookkeeping job. She fell hard for the smart, observant omega; he, in turn, fell hard for the gentle and funny alpha. They're one of those rare couples who remain in love, even twenty or thirty years after their initial bond, and they were devastated when Moshe returned from the war bonded to a gentile German omega who he refused to marry. Nevertheless, Moshe's parents were extremely kind to Johann, and, although he's never been more than quiet and respectful whenever they visit, Moshe suspects Johann is quite fond of them, as well. It wouldn't be the first time he brought Johann to his parent's house to wait out a heat: Moshe is always insisting they could care for him better than he could.

Johann is quiet as they walk back to their apartment. Moshe puts an arm around him, to cover him with an alpha's scent, and Johann willingly leans into his side. They're the perfect picture of a territorial alpha rushing his omega home after the onset of an unexpected heat, and most people stay well out of their way. As a six foot tall former heavyweight champion with cauliflower ears, Moshe would be intimidating even if he weren't playing the part of a potentially violent animal. When a couple of unbonded alphas leer, it takes only a pointed look to set them straight.

They're a block away from the apartment building when Moshe catches himself breathing deeply through his nose, and appreciating Johann's scent in comparison to the less pleasing scents of the city - shoe polish, such a familiar army smell, and Johann had once told him he'd grown up in Kiel, a harbor town off the Baltic, which Moshe imagines must smell the way his omega smells on breezy days. He bites the inside of his cheek, and tries not to concentrate on how Johann is rubbing his thumb in distracted circles against the small of his back. They walk three flights of stairs in complete silence, and Moshe fumbles to unlock the door, the scrape of metal against metal thunderous. In the apartment, Johann sits on the bed with a pained expression, and Moshe kneels on the floor beside the dresser, busy packing an extra outfit for him. When Johann finally speaks, his voice is a strained whisper, containing nothing like the defiant anger from the deli, "Please."

The horrible vacuum that had settled between them is broken and Moshe, folding a shirt, simply drops his hands to his lap.

"Please," Johann begs, and this time it comes out like a moan. He's leaned back onto his elbows and is making useless little motions with his hips, as if trying to find friction against anything, but in vain. If Moshe weren't in the room, Johann would surely have his cock out in his own hand, and three fingers thrust deep inside himself, searching desperately for satisfaction - again, in vain. Shoving the shirt into the overnight bag, Moshe rises to leave, to give Johann enough privacy to find release and pull himself together, but as soon as he moves to the door, Johann tips his head back to display his throat and begs Moshe again, " _Please_."

"You know I can't. You know I don't," Moshe says, but can't seem to finish. I don't find men attractive, he means to say. I don't find you attractive. But his own cock is straining half-hard against his briefs and he's filled, again, with that restlessness, that ache to move. He remembers his dream from last night, and the memory gets mixed with a desire to push Johann's legs back until his knees are near his head and to pound him relentlessly until the scent of the alpha from this morning is completely erased. The reminder of the alpha from this morning renews a flush of anger in Moshe and no, he thinks, suddenly vindictive, he wants Johann on his hands and knees, fucking himself back against Moshe's cock like its nothing but a toy, forbidden to touch himself, but forced to do the work for them both - until Moshe's knot grew too large for Johann to slide back on, and Moshe would have to grab Johann's hips and force it inside; make Johann scream, not entirely with pain, but scream gratefully, as Moshe finally stroked him to his release.

"I don't understand," Johann says, his eyes closed, and Moshe is startled back from the violence of his daydream. Johann has thumbed the button of his pants open, but nothing more, and he's panting. Moshe realizes that the scent in the room is no longer only Johann's, but overwhelming his, too; the last time he smelled something like it was the last time he'd fucked an omega woman during the war. It was an odd, almost out of body thing, to put off enough scent to notice it as one's own. It must have been driving Johann mad. "I don't understand," Johann repeats, rubbing his hand against himself through his trousers. He starts talking again, babbling, really, as if he's on the edge of panic. "That's what they all said, then, too. Of course, that they'd never fuck a man. Of course not. But when it came down to it, they-"

"Shh," Moshe says, setting the bag down and moving to the bed. "Don't. Don't talk about that."

He puts a hand on Johann's thigh and Johann's eyes snap open. He looks into Moshe's eyes. The truth is, Moshe hadn't found him attractive, at first. Johann had been frail when they first met. Skeletal. Horrifying. He'd been horrifying, or at least, he'd been the representation of something horrifying, more monstrous even than anything Moshe had ever seen - of all the horrors Moshe had seen. He'd reminded Moshe of his dad, and of his dad's family; all of them missing, most of them undoubtedly dead. An unbonded omega wandering the woods in a country going through the final throes of war. It was only a matter of time until a fleeing German soldier shot him, or until an alpha from any one of the invading armies used him up. And also, Moshe thought, not without a tinge of guilt, if he did something extraordinarily strange and stupid, like bonded a male omega while out on patrol, they might send him - them, both of them - home, or to England, anywhere away from this nightmare, if only for a brief and wondrous leave.

And so Moshe had given the broken and blank-eyed man some food, and in exchange Johann had, with truly terrifying apathy, craned his dirty neck to the side and let Moshe make his mark. Afterward, as he chewed Moshe's ration of chocolate, he explained that his name was Johann and he'd escaped from a march. Moshe, unsure what that meant, only told Johann his own name and said that they'd be safe. He doubts Johann heard the latter bit, about being safe, or he maybe he just didn't believe it at the time. But when he'd heard Moshe's name, he'd laughed.

Looking into Johann's eyes now, years later, Moshe can see how much he's changed. His dark brown eyes are blown, irises so big they're almost all black, but he's far from blank-eyed. He's not some specter from the past; he's full of life, and right now he's confused and needy. Johann puts one of his hands over Moshe's hand and moves it from his thigh to the bulge of his cock, and he looks back into Moshe's eyes imploringly. For the hundredth and first time, Moshe is surprised at how small Johann's hands are compared to own, and he sees this, too, in a new light. How short and slender Johann is - and no longer unhealthily so - with soft black hair; Moshe unzips Johann's trousers and begins to pull them down, to run his fingers through the short black hairs around his cock, to feel that, too. He's really the perfect omega. Moshe could lift him as easily as a kitten, could fuck him against a wall with no effort at all; he thinks, then, that perhaps he will.

Johann laughs, and his laugh is joyous, not the hollow laugh Moshe remembers from the woods.

"Wait," he says.

"Wait?" Moshe is incredulous.

"I've got to take off my shoes."

Moshe snorts and steps back to pull off Johann's shoes, then his trousers - he lifts his hips eagerly - and Johann takes off his own shift, throwing it to the floor, so that he's naked in front of Moshe, his whole body flush with heat. Moshe begins to strip himself, while Johann watches, grinning almost giddily. They'd seen each other naked before, but never quite like this, and Moshe, despite his athletic body, feels almost self-conscious until Johann sees his cock, fully erect now, and actually moans. Its Moshe's turn to laugh.

"Really?" He says.

"Oh, you fucking idiot," Johann had known how to swear in Yiddish even before Moshe bonded him, "Don't talk to me like I'm the virgin. I'm being _so_ restrained right now, you have no idea. Fuck me, you oblivious brute."

At that, Moshe pushes two fingers into Johann. Johann gasps and squirms down onto Moshe's hand, deperate to be penetrated deeper, so Moshe adds another finger, somewhat surprised at the ease of its entrance; but then, Johann is slick with heat and it isn't exactly his first time. Even that day. The thought of Johann's - infidelity? Moshe can't bring himself to call it that word - drags up his earlier desires and Moshe growls with possessive jealousy. His fingers move hard and deep inside Johann as he leans forward, breathing hotly against his mate's throat. Moshe sucks the bruises that have already deepened there, making each of them his own, until finally he makes it to that particularly sensitive spot behind the curve of Johann's right ear - the one that matters - and Johann moans, hips jerking, when Moshe grazes his teeth against it.

"Please," Johann begs, prettily, "Fuck me."

Moshe pulls his hand away, eliciting a desperate shudder from Johann, who is suddenly empty once again. Moshe brings his hand to his mouth and licks one of the fingers, then sucks on it greedily. He groans. "I want you on all fours," he says, and Johann freezes. He eyes almost get that sharp and glassy look,and he almost begins to move into that position mechanically, but Moshe puts a hand on his shoulder and strokes the side of side of his face, stopping him.

"No," Moshe says, "Hold on. What's up?"

"I," Johann says, caught between the pain and desperation and need of having Moshe in any way, and whatever overwhelming fear it is that sometimes makes him cower as if Moshe is about to beat him, even though Moshe had always done his best never to a raise a hand while in Johann's presence. "I can. Don't worry."

"No," Moshe says, kissing Johann's forehead.

"I'm sorry. It's just that, when they. It was always." Johann is panting again, though this time Moshe can't tell if it's heat or terror. He continues to plant gentle kisses on Johann's forehead, cheek bone, the tip of his nose. He runs his hands through Johann's hair, but carefully, so as to not give Johann the impression that he's about to grab or tug. They'd never spoken about the things that happened to Johann all those years ago. Johann had tried to tell him, time and again; like at the deli, when he'd been about to tell Moshe he wasn't afraid of rape - because why should he be afraid of something he'd been through before? But Moshe wouldn't let him, and had never let him speak of it. Sex, Moshe had decided, wasn't something they discussed, and when he made this decision for both of them, he had cruelly filed Johann's rape under sex.

"We should stop," Moshe says, but Johann throws his head back and hits the bed with his fist in frustration.

"No, not after - it's not like my heat is just going to go away. It's not like _we_ are just going to go away. I want you," Johann says, "I trust you."

At this point, Moshe thinks, I don't know why. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Alright then. How do you want it?"

Johann bites his lip, considering this, then hesitantly comes to a decision, "Like this. Facing you. I want to see your face."

Moshe nods, and smiles. He kisses Johann again, savoring him: his omega, his mate. Taking himself in hand, Moshe pushes inside, slowly, and Johann wraps his legs around him, arching his back to encourage Moshe deeper. Moshe watches Johann eyes flutter shut, lips parting as he gasps and then exhales a lazy, satisfied moan. He had once heard an omega describe her heat as an unbearable pain, eased only by an alpha's massive cock: he's ambivalent about whether or not this was truth or terrible flattery, but the lines of Johann's face seem visibly relieved as Moshe fully seats himself. He begins to thrust, gently, picking up the pace only when Johann reminds him with a smirk that he's not made of glass, so that Moshe pounds into him as he'd wanted to in his mind that morning, with hard shoves that wipe the smirk off Johann's face and cause him to emit short breathless little noises, fingers like a vice on Moshe's bicep. He can tell Johann is close when he begins to clench rhythmically around Moshe's cock, and Moshe pulls out.

Johann gives him an utterly murderous look that makes Moshe laugh a little too hard.

"Get up further on the bed," Moshe says, "It'll be more comfortable for me when we knot."

"Selfish," Johann mutters, most likely in German, but the word is so similar to its Yiddish counterpart Moshe can't rightly tell. Johann moves so that he's no longer on the edge of the bed and spreads his thighs, and Moshe mounts him again in one thrust. It's not long until Moshe's knot grows too large to slide in and out Johann without resistance, so Moshe grabs Johann's hips and pushes it inside one last time. Johann yelps uncomfortably, but Moshe quickly wraps a hand around his cock and strokes him, trembling, into release. With Johann clenching and shuddering around him, Moshe's own cock soon begins to pump seed inside him. Johann sighs.

"Roll over so I'm on top," he says, impatient.

"Yes, sir," Moshe says, wrapping his arms around Johann and switching their positions. He keeps his arms there, as Johann rests his head on Moshe's chest, blinking sleepily. When Moshe grinds his hips up a few times, playfully, Johann gasps at the over-stimulation and swats him gently.

"Look at you," Moshe says, as if he were looking at a natural wonder, "Look at _us_."

"Mein Gott," Johann groans, closing his eyes. "Are you ever self-centered."

"I'm sorry," Moshe says, truthfully.

Johann hums, _mm-hmm_ , not exactly forgiveness, and nuzzles his cheek against Moshe's chest, dozing lightly, for the time being, warm and content.


End file.
